He watched his brother maneuver through the field of people, smiling cheerfully, clasping hands and kissing cheeks and occasionally gesturing to his outfit with a self-deprecating laugh; despite his earlier remark, the fact was, Rhy fit in effortlessly. As he should, Kell supposed.
And yet, Kell loathed the greedy way the ostra eyed the prince. The women’s batting lashes held too little warmth and too much cunning. The men’s appraising looks now held too little kindness and too much hunger. One or two shot a glance toward Kell, a ghost of that same hunger, but none were brave enough to approach. Good. Let them whisper, let them look. He felt the strange and sudden urge to make a scene, to watch their amusement harden into terror at the sight of his true power.
Kell’s grip tightened on his glass, and he was about to rise when he caught the edge of conversation from a nearby party.
He didn’t mean to eavesdrop; the practice just came naturally. Perhaps the magic in his veins gave him strong ears, or perhaps he’d simply learned to tune them over the years. It became habit, when you were so often the topic of whispered debate.
“… I could have entered,” said a nobleman, reclining on a hill of cushions.
“Come,” chided a woman at his elbow, “even if you had the skills, which you do not, you’re too late by a measure. The roster has been set.”
“Has it now?”
Like most of the city, they were talking of the Essen Tasch—the Element Games—and Kell paid them little mind at first, since the ostra were usually more concerned with the balls and banquets than the competitors. And when they did speak of the magicians, it was in the way people talked of exotic beasts.
“Well, of course, the list hasn’t been posted,” continued the woman in a conspiratorial tone, “but my brother has his methods.”
“Anyone we know?” asked another man in an airy, unconcerned way.
“I’ve heard the victor, Kisimyr, is in again.”
“And what of Emery?”
At that, Kell stiffened, his grip going knuckles-white on his glass. Surely it is a mistake, he thought at the same time a woman said, “Alucard Emery?”
“Yes. I’ve heard he’s coming back to compete.”
Kell’s pulse thudded in his ears, and the wine in his cup began to swirl.
“That’s nonsense,” insisted one of the men.
“You do have an ear for gossip. Emery hasn’t set foot on London soil in three years.”
“That may be,” insisted the woman, “but his name is on the roster. My brother’s friend has a sister who is messenger to the Aven Essen, and she said—”
A sudden pain lanced through Kell’s shoulder, and he nearly fumbled the glass. His head snapped up, searching for the source of the attack as his hand went to his shoulder blade. It took him a moment to register that the pain wasn’t actually his. It was an echo.
Rhy.
Where was Rhy?
Kell surged to his feet, upsetting the things on the table as he scanned the room for the prince’s onyx hair, his blue coat. He was nowhere to be seen. Kell’s heart pounded in his chest, and he resisted the urge to shout Rhy’s name across the lawn. He could feel eyes shifting toward him, and he didn’t care. He didn’t give a damn about any of them. The only person in this place—in this city—he cared about was somewhere nearby, and he was in pain.
Kell squinted across the too-bright field of Splendor. The sun lanterns were glaring overhead, but in the distance, the afternoon light of the open chamber tapered off into hallways of darker forest. Kell swore and plunged across the field, ignoring the looks from the other patrons.
The pain came again, this time in his lower back, and Kell’s knife was out of its sheath as he stormed into the shadowed canopy, cursing the dense trees, the star-lights in the branches the only source of light. The only other things in these woods were couples entwined.
Dammit, he cursed, his pulse raging as he doubled back.
He’d learned to keep one of Rhy’s tokens on him, just in case, and he was about to draw blood and summon a finding spell when his scar throbbed in a way that told him the prince was close. He twisted around and could hear a muffled voice through the nearest copse, one that might be Rhy’s; Kell shoved through, expecting a fight, and found something else entirely.
There, on a mossy slope, a half-dressed Rhy was hovering over the girl in white, the blue flower still in her hair, his face buried in her shoulder. Across his bare back, Kell could see scratch marks deep enough to draw blood, and a fresh echo of pain blossomed near Kell’s hips as her nails dug into Rhy’s flesh.
Kell exhaled sharply, in discomfort and relief, and the girl saw him standing there and gasped. Rhy dragged his head up, breathless, and had the audacity to smile.
“You bastard,” hissed Kell.
“Lover?” wondered the girl.
Rhy sank back onto his heels, and then twisted with a languid grace, reclining on the moss. “Brother,” he explained.
“Go,” Kell ordered the girl. She looked disconcerted, but she gathered her dress around her and left all the same, while Rhy got unsteadily to his feet and cast about for his shirt. “I thought you were being attacked!”